


memento mori

by meanpancake



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Genderqueer Character, Multi, Polyamory, not a happy ending but a hopeful one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanpancake/pseuds/meanpancake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with random attacks. It ends with the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	memento mori

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naeviastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naeviastark/gifts).



> First fill of a series of Mimithos prompts. Title (trans. "remember that you have to die") suggested by naeviastark, and the mashed-up quote at the beginning is inspired by [this Christina Rossetti poem](http://genius.com/Christina-rossetti-memento-mori-annotated).
> 
> Aramis is genderqueer and uses ne/nem/nir pronouns. 
> 
> WARNINGS: Violence, gore, amputation of a limb, death (mostly implied, nothing too explicit), angst. And, I'll say it again here, major character deaths.

_poor the pleasure…_

_sweet the sorrow…_

 

 

“You’re ruining my _coiffure_ ,” Aramis complains with an eye-roll, because nem complaining is obligatory at this point, really, but Milady just laughs and keeps putting daisies in nir hair. Porthos smiles at them, affection making him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and when Aramis gives him a stern look he shrugs, still smiling fondly: “Sorry, babe, can’t help it.”

It’s the truth, they are so perfect together, so beautiful, that Porthos sometimes can’t believe they’re a part of his life. That he’s part of theirs. And now, with the spring sun bathing them in soft light and children playing in the park, shouting and laughing and screeching, and other people picnicking in the meadow like the three of them, it seems even more like a dream to him.

“Done,” Milady announces and gives Aramis a little kiss on the neck, whispering something into nir skin that makes nir ears turn pink, before she turns to Porthos - brows raised, lips curved, eyes bright -, and says: “You’re up next, big boy. I think… dandelion. Yes, dandelion.”

With that, it’s settled.

(Later that evening, they weave blades of grass into Milady’s hair and she insists they ask someone to take a photo of them in their flower gear. It’s the picture they put on the invitations for their home-warming party a few months later, when they move in together. They’re happy, then. Undoubtedly and undeniably so.)

 

*

 

It starts with random attacks on civilians. Actually, that’s probably not how it starts. But that’s how it becomes a visible threat to the public. Authorities claim to have it under control, but the truth is that they struggle to so much as contain the attackers in question, let alone stop these incidents from happening. And it’s not long before they become routine, until there are so many happening that the media can’t keep up with them anymore, until people are too busy to keep themselves safe – _safe_ , hah – and alive to even care.

The sirens barely stop howling, their melodic shrilling sounding through the city all night and day, as relentless as the attackers, drowning out noises of fighting and screaming and dying on the streets. It gets bad, really _fucking_ bad so fast that it hits the vast majority unprepared. The number of dead bodies rises and the dead bodies rise with it. Literally.

Europeans from rich countries are seeking asylum in North Africa, ironically, since so many of them opposed the admittance of refugees from these exact countries just a few years back. They conveniently manage to forget this, though. Oh, how times change.

Those who stay behind, who don’t have the means to run away, who are not important enough to be brought to safety, get advice from government officials through the radio and TV: ‘Don’t leave your homes.’ ‘Stay inside.’ ‘It’s dangerous out there.’ ‘But worry not, help is on the way.’

It hits Porthos that Flea and Charon and the kids – his kids - must be in the midst of the chaos, the dying, the living dead, and he starts shaking, anxiety clawing into his chest like a hungry beast, _because he didn’t even think of asking them to stay at his place when it all began._ If they died, if they died because they didn’t have shelter- The tears overwhelm him, and they feel as overwhelming as the undead creatures overwhelming the living. Milady and Aramis hold him in their arms – faces worried, somber, exhausted from the apocalypse already -, while he cries.

And then, one day soon, the sirens stop. The announcements stop. Where there was noise, nothing but noise, a ravenous silence swallows up the city. Nobody sent help. The streets crawl with undead, but they are quiet, as if the world is in mourning and they have no reason to disrupt it.

That’s how it ends.

 

*

 

“We have to move,” Aramis says. The early morning sun washes out the grey of the night – and it’s absurd to think that the pending end of the human race didn’t drain all color from the world, but then again it’s absurd to think that human beings are that important -, shades of yellow, orange, and pink bleeding into the sky. Ne has nir sniper rifle stripped to nir side, wearing what seems to be nir old army clothes. Ne never liked talking about nir time as a soldier, but it comes in handy now, at the end of the world, Porthos thinks and nods curtly.

“Maybe it’s in the water.” Milady watches the water tap dripping, seemingly not paying attention to Aramis’ words, and lets a drop fall into the palm of her hand. “Maybe it’s been in the water all along. Maybe we never stood a chance.”

Porthos doesn’t reply. There are countless theories of what caused the attacks and the following uprising of the dead: A virus, an accident with chemical or biological weapons, nuclear radiation, genetically manipulated crops, toxins, _something_ extraterrestrial, some even claim it’s the wrath of God. And in the face of zombies walking the earth, how can anyone tell which of these theories are plausible and which are nonsense?

“We have to move or we will die,” Aramis repeats. There’s a strange calmness to nir voice and ne touches Milady’s shoulder. She flinches and clenches her fist under the water tub, and ne says softly: “Please, love?”

“It’s not fair,” she says, and Porthos knows her eyes are swimming in tears. He feels like crying too, but Aramis will not have it, as ne shrugs and nir eyes blaze with love: “It’s not fair, and that’s exactly why we have to leave. Let’s get our baby out of this mess.”

A stifled sob comes over Milady’s lips, and Porthos gets up to wrap them both into his arms.

“We’ll be fine,” Aramis whispers, “We’ll be fine.”

 

*

 

They’ve discussed this before, when things seemed to calm down, when Milady told them in tears that she was pregnant. To leave for Morocco, to follow Samara’s invitation to safety. But then the airports were shut down, train stations and ports followed shortly. Cars became a rarity, bikes too.

So it’s a journey on foot.

Porthos takes the lead, physically at least, because Aramis is navigating them through both urban and rural territory, hammer and axe ready to strike. He’s their shield. He also carries Milady’s share of the rations, because whatever she says (“It’s not a condition, I’m pregnant and I’ll do my bit. _Porthos_ -”), he won’t let her exhaust herself more than necessary.

Milady has multiple knives on her body. She’s swift and fast with blades, without ever having trained professionally, and she’s as unshaken as Aramis whenever they ecounter a fight. A handgun with two bullets is tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She’s scouting, her field glass always close at hand, and reports critical movement of the undead back to Aramis.

Aramis walks as last one, keeping possible threats at gunpoint and taking them out in time if required. Ne is in charge of the map, too, planning and adapting the route during every rest. Whenever they have a moment, ne teaches them basic survival tactics: Building a fire, finding water, distinguishing edible plants from toxic ones, taking care of wounds, securing shelter, setting traps, orienting themselves towards the fixed stars.

They work smoothly as a group, mostly because Milady and Aramis seem to be made for this kind of life, on the run, depending on nobody but themselves, and Porthos is content to lend them his body strength, since he can’t provide any specialized knowledge or apocalypse-handy skills.

(Except fighting, fighting he can and _will_ do.)

 

*

 

Sometimes there’s electricity, and sometimes there’s even mobile reception or a wifi signal. They use these opportunities to charge their phones, and try to reach out to the outer world – but the grid is helplessly overburdened. Porthos assumes the signal doesn’t even come through.

Sometimes there are people, living breathing people, who travel alone or in groups. Aramis always makes them avoid strangers, and Milady is on nir side, but Porthos… well, maybe it’s the social worker in him, but he wants to initiate contact. Help others. Lift their chances of survival.

But ‘stronger in numbers’ is no argument, neither for Milady nor for Aramis. And so they keep to themselves, always, no exception, not even if people are dying and begging for help.

“You’re soft,” Milady says and sounds gentle, despite the blood under her fingernails, the cracks in her lips, the bruises on her body, all of which make her look like a wild animal in human skin, “and kind.” She kisses him.

Aramis smiles, and kisses him on the other side of his face. “That’s why we need you. That’s why our child needs you.”

“We can’t lose you. You have to let people like us,“, Milady touches Aramis’ hand, “prioritize your life, our lives, over the lives of strangers.”

Porthos shrugs his ok, even though he’s not, he’s not ok, saying in a small voice: “Promise me we won’t kill people. Please. Just. _Promise_ me.”

Silence.

“We love you, Porthos.”

 

*

 

The bumping against the door, the windows, is unceasing. Hands, fingers, nails, faces, teeth – against the glass, against the iron of the door, scraping, scratching, snapping. They’re closing in and they are trapped. It’s almost dark, and with the darkness more undead appear.

To the sound of guttural noises and voiceless hisses, Porthos holds three sticks out to Milady and Aramis. They’re drawing who has to go out and distract the zombies, and even though Aramis and himself have protested, Milady insists she partakes too. She draws first, and it’s a long stick. Porthos exhales, maybe a little too obviously, because she shoots him a sharp look. Her eyes are sad and angry.

Aramis gives him a one-sided smile, and draws nir lot. Long, it’s a long one too. Porthos exhales again, because they’ll be safe, no matter what happens, they’ll flee, they’ll run, they’re survivors, they won’t look back. And he’s the strongest and maybe he will survive being the bait when they wouldn't.

“I would’ve gone anyway,” he says, smiling at them in desperate love, and kisses both of their hands. “I love you. Be careful.”

Porthos picks up his hammer and fastens the axe on his belt, walking towards the door. People have called him many things in his lifetime: Brute, savage, primitive, an animal. He smiles to himself, embracing these words, because here, at the end of the world, they’re almost compliments. He survived growing up in the streets, he may just survive crossing a zombie-invested country.

“Love you.” Milady and Aramis both, quiet, their weapons ready.

Porthos nods, bracing himself for the flood of undead, and opens the door.

 

*

 

“Cut it off. You have to- cut it off.” Aramis’ voice is strained, nir breaths come in short pants, but ne is standing. Blood drips from nir wrist, along with salvia, the bite wound a dark mark on ashen skin. The zombie who bit nem dead on the slippery ground.

They have not honoured the agreement. Porthos had been surrounded by undead, hammer smeared with blood and brains and bits of bone and rotten flesh, and he knew he was going to die. But then Aramis and Milady had been there, suddenly, fighting by his side. They’ve been so close to coming out unscathed, _so close_ , but then Aramis lost nir balance and fell, a zombie flinging itself onto nem a mere heartbeat later.

Porthos had dragged it away from Aramis, crushing its skull with his hammer, but he was too late. Ne’s already been bitten.

“Cut it _off_.” Now Aramis sounds panicked, and Porthos can’t move, he’s useless, he can’t cut off Aramis’ arm, he just _can’t_. Milady’s face is pale, but she grabs the axe from Porthos’ belt, and Aramis is already strapping a piece of cloth around nir arm, just above the elbow, and Porthos doesn’t want to watch, but he has to. There’s a table inside the cabin and Aramis places nir arm on it.

“Please finish the job,” Aramis breathes and Milady laughs helplessly, raising the axe.

The sound of bone against iron, of Aramis trying not to scream, of Milady crying – it’s too much, and it’s his fault. Porthos throws up violently.

They shouldn’t have come back for him.

 

*

 

“Go away, you can’t have him!” It’s a young voice, a teenage voice, on the verge of breaking. Call it instinct or habit, but Porthos heads straight to the source of the shouting, Milady close by his side, Aramis behind him.

They’d broken the rules, he breaks them too. They don’t lose a word about it.

What they find is a boy with dark skin and wild hair in front of a car, defending what seems to be a man on the ground, unmoving, from two zombies. His only weapon is a screw-wench, and it’s just enough to keep them at a distance.

“I’ll take the left one,” Aramis says, getting nir rifle ready. Ne wears an improvised prosthetic that function as nir forearm, so ne can hold and aim the rifle, everything else ne does singlehandedly. It just takes a bit longer than usual.

“Don’t hit the kid,” Milady says, smiles back at nem. They reach the right zombie just as the left one falls to Aramis’ bullet. Porthos hits it on the side of its skull from behind, and Milady grabs what’s left of its hair and pulls the head back, so she can stick the knife into its eye. It drops dead, for good this time.

The boy breathes heavily, sweat on his brow, blood on his shirt, but he doesn’t lower the screw-wench. “I didn’t need your help.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Aramis has caught up, smiling a little. “What’s your name, young hero?”

“Don’t be mean, Aramis.” But Porthos can’t help but smile too.

The boy looks indignant. “You people should leave now, I’m being serious.”

“Children. _Behave_ ,” Milady says, and suddenly three pairs of eyes are on her. She laughs.

The boy smiles.

 

*

 

“How far are you?”, d’Artagnan asks Milady, pointing at her belly, and he’s at least as excited as the three of them about the prospect of having a baby in the group.

“Five months, give or take.”

“I always wanted brothers and sisters.” Smiling brightly, then, suddenly, faltering. “I guess that won’t happen now.”

D’Artagnan had lost his mom when he was little, his dad just recently. He’d been the body d’Art’s defended from the undead, the body he refused to leave behind, until they’d offered to help him bury him. (It had been Porthos who’d driven a blade through the corpse’s skull, deep into the brain, to prevent it from turning. He never told d’Artagnan, but he suspects that he knows it anyway.)

Milady’s face is soft as she puts an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder, and says: “Our baby will need a big brother.”

In hindsight, that’s the moment d’Artagnan became an official part of their group and a member of their little family.

 

*

 

They took the wrong turn. And now they’ll die. Even though they are so close to reaching the refugee camp, the last harbor that still sends ships to North Africa. They are close, but not close enough. And death is near.

Huddled together against a wall, weapons in their hands, they are waiting for the inevitable. Milady is in a bad shape, d’Artagnan too, but Porthos feels calm. He gives Aramis a look, nir expression as calm as his own, and nods. It’s somehow comforting to know that he’ll die with the person he never needed words with.

He smiles. Aramis smiles back.

_I love you._

 

*

 

Her hands shake as she scatters daisies and dandelions into the sea. _Goodbye, my loves._ The flowers dance above the water, dots of white and yellow upon opaque blue. Her heart grieves, and she knows she’d have chosen to follow them to death if it wasn’t for their baby.

D’Artagnan keeps close, doesn’t ask about the flowers, and watches them disappear in the endless water with her. And when she finally turns to him, crying, helpless and desperate and hurt and angry, he holds her.

 

*

 

Milady’s daughter is born with brown skin and black curls, screaming and kicking, and she names her Aramis. Samara kisses Milady’s temple, d’Artagnan holds her hand, and they both join her crying.

Later, when her daughter is asleep on her chest, breathing even and calm, Milady touches her tiny face. She smiles through fresh tears, thinking about how much they would have loved her, Porthos and Aramis, and hopes they can see her somehow. Know she’s alive, safe. She falls asleep, lost in thoughts and memories.

For the first time since the apocalypse had dawned upon the world, Milady sleeps soundly.

(And maybe… maybe this isn’t the end after all.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! More Mimithos to follow.


End file.
